by Aimee Bender
Turning away from the hellish sights, the Nancy-bot slammed her mechanical fist against the desk.
“I swear, Ronnie, one day I’m gonna destroy that Dressica Killmaiden!”
“Well, Nancy, what can I say? They just beat us. Those goddamn punk rockers beat us.”
THE OCTOPUS
BEN LOORY
The octopus is spooning sugar into his tea when there is a knock on the door.
Come in, says the octopus over his shoulder, and the door opens.
It is Mrs. Jorgenson.
Got your mail, Mr. Octopus, she says, moving daintily into the apartment.
Thank you, Mrs. Jorgenson, says the octopus. Would you like some tea?
Why yes, I’d love some, comes the response. Do you mind if I sit down?
Not at all, says the octopus, getting down another cup. Not at all.
He brings the tea to the table.
Oh, my aching feet, says Mrs. Jorgenson. I’ve been up and down those stairs so many times today already.
I do appreciate your bringing up my mail, says the octopus, laying a spoon beside the sugar bowl for Mrs. Jorgenson.
Oh, for you I don’t mind at all, she says. It’s just some of these other tenants. Everyone’s got a problem, you know. And I nearly tripped and fell on the third floor; there was some kind of puddle.
Puddle? says the octopus.
Puddle! says Mrs. Jorgenson. Just sitting there in the middle of the staircase.
The octopus looks confused. Then he sees the mail.
Do you mind if I . . . ? he says to Mrs. Jorgenson.
Heavens, no, she replies. You go right ahead. Mmm, this is good tea.
Darjeeling, says the octopus, leafing through the mail.
There’s really nothing good, just the usual stuff. Bills, catalogs, junk mail, more bills . . . and then the octopus gets to the last piece of mail. He sits there, holding it gently in one tentacle.
What is it? says Mrs. Jorgenson.
It’s from the ocean, says the octopus, staring at the postmark.
I didn’t know you still had folks there, says Mrs. Jorgenson.
Oh yes, says the octopus. Oh yes, I do. My brother, my brother’s children.
How nice, says Mrs. Jorgenson. Perhaps it’s from them?
Perhaps it is, says the octopus, and he slits the envelope open.
He reads for some time.
Hmm, he says, when he gets to the end.
He looks up to see Mrs. Jorgenson staring at him.
It’s from my little nephews, he says. Would you like me to read it?
I wouldn’t dream of it, says Mrs. Jorgenson. I mean, unless you wanted to.
The octopus smiles and holds up the letter again. He begins to read.
Dear Uncle Harley, he reads—interjecting, My name is Harley—Hello from the ocean! We hope everything on land is going well. The other day Aunt Hattie got into a fight with a cuttlefish. It was funny! We think we might like to come visit you, just the two of us. We’ve heard so much about you, we’d like to meet you in person. Would that be okay? Please let us know. Your nephews, Gerald and Lewis.
He finishes reading and lowers the letter.
Gerald and Lewis, says Mrs. Jorgenson. They sound like nice young boys.
Oh, they are, says the octopus. Or at least, so it seems. I never really met them in person. I mean, they were only just hatched when I left, so they hadn’t quite developed personalities.
Ah, says Mrs. Jorgenson. Are you going to let them come?
Well, says the octopus, looking around, I don’t really have a lot of room. Just the couch, really. Where would the other one sleep?
I have a cot I could bring up, says Mrs. Jorgenson.
Do you? says the octopus. Well, that would work. It would be nice to see some of the old gang again.
How long have you been here? asks Mrs. Jorgenson.
About fifteen years, says the octopus.
That’s a long time, says Mrs. Jorgenson.
Yes, but I love it, says the octopus, looking around at his apartment. Yes, but I do love it so.
Well, says Mrs. Jorgenson, I guess you should be writing back. If you dash something off, I’ll put it in the mailbox when I get down to the lobby.
Would you? says the octopus.
Yes, of course, says Mrs. Jorgenson.
And so it is done.
A few days later there is a knock on the door.
Come in, hollers the octopus, who is cleaning his spoons.
But the door does not open. The octopus grumbles a bit, then gets down from his chair and glides across the room. He opens the door a crack.
Gerald and Lewis! he says, in surprise.
Uncle Harley! they say, and they all embrace.
Come in, come in, says the octopus.
Gerald and Lewis move inside the apartment.
So this is what an apartment looks like, says Gerald, his eyes roving over everything.
It’s a little dirty right now, says the octopus.
Dirty? says Gerald. It’s amazing—so many treasures!
He is looking at the octopus’s collection of spoons, laid out on the table for polishing.
Those are my spoons, says the octopus. I collect them.
What are they for? says Lewis. His voice is rather squeaky.
They’re for moving small volumes of liquid around, says the octopus. Or solids, like sugar. I use them all the time.
All three octopi stand there and stare at the spoons.
We don’t have anything like that in the ocean, says Gerald.
No, says the octopus, you don’t.
Well, he says suddenly, turning. Gerald, you will have the couch. And Lewis, you will have the cot. Unless you want to trade off from night to night.
No, that will be fine, says Lewis. I don’t mind. I’ve never slept on a cot before.
He goes and sits on the cot. He bounces up and down.
So where will we go first? he asks.
Go? says the octopus, looking at him.
Go, says Lewis. What will we go to see first?
The octopus doesn’t know what to say.
You mean in the, in the city? he asks.
Of course, says Lewis. We just came from the ocean.
Oh, well, I don’t know, says the octopus. I don’t really go out there.
You don’t go into the city? says Lewis.
No, says the octopus. Not really.
Ever? says Lewis.
No, says the octopus. I like it here.
Gerald and Lewis look at each other.
We thought you were going to take us around to see the city, Gerald says. That’s why we came.
I thought you came to see me, says the octopus.
Well, that too, of course, says Gerald. It was both, it was both.
They said we could only come if you’d show us around and take care of us, says Lewis.
Who? says the octopus. Who said that?
Daddy and Aunt Hattie, says Lewis.
Ah, says the octopus. I see.
And now we’re here, says Lewis.
Indeed, you are, says the octopus.
The three stupid octopi regard one another in silence.
Well I guess I’ll be your tour guide, the octopus says, finally.
Gerald and Lewis smile broadly.
They spend the next day walking the streets of the city. Gerald has a map, and Lewis is in charge of sunscreen. The octopus himself merely walks, staring up at the huge, awe-inspiring buildings and trying not to be terrified of the passing buses and cars.
You’re more scared than we are, Uncle Harvey, says Gerald.
And Lewis and the octopus both laugh.
They go to the museums and libraries. They listen to a concert in a park. They have lunch and dinner, and go to an opera.
At the end of the day, they find themselves sitting at an outdoor cafe. Gerald and Lewis are drinking root beer; the octopus has tea.
So? says the octopus. What do you th
ink?
It certainly is large, says Gerald.
It certainly is huge, says Lewis.
The octopus nods.
Yes it is, he says. Yes, it is.
Is it true that you’ll live forever? says Gerald out of the blue. I mean, if you stay here?
The octopus looks at him thoughtfully.
It is, says the octopus. It is true. Supposedly, of course. I guess the only way to tell for sure is to stay here and find out.
But why does it work that way? says Lewis. Why can’t we live forever in the ocean?
I don’t know, says the octopus. That’s just the way it is. When an octopus comes to land, he lives forever. It’s just the way it is, like the way some people have brown hair and some people are blond.
Gerald and Lewis sit and stare at their sodas.
Has Dad ever been here? Gerald asks.
No, says the octopus. Your dad was never much interested in land.
Why’s that? says Lewis.
I don’t know, says the octopus. He just wasn’t. He met your mom and they were very happy, and then they had you. So there was never really time for coming to visit the land, or for thinking about living here.
But why don’t we all live here? says Gerald.
The octopus looks at him and smiles.
It just doesn’t work that way, he says. It just doesn’t work that way.
That night the octopus tucks Gerald and Lewis into bed.
Sleep tight, he says. Tomorrow you go back to the ocean.
What? Already? say Gerald and Lewis.
I’m sorry, says the octopus, but yes. I have a lot of things to do and I can’t do them with you boys hanging around all the time. I love you, though. You boys know that?
The boys grumble a little, but say yes.
Good, says the octopus. Then good night.
He pats the boys on their heads and then goes into the kitchen. He makes himself a cup of tea and stirs sugar into it with a spoon. He listens to the clanking noise the spoon makes against the cup, and watches the liquid as it swirls around: a circle, a circle, a circle.
When he returns to the living room, the boys are fast asleep. He stands there in the darkness, watching them. Then he returns to the kitchen and opens a cabinet. Inside, the silver polish; in the drawer, the spoons.
The next morning they are all off to the beach.
Shall I carry your suitcase? the octopus says to Lewis.
Oh no, says Lewis, I got it.
They move down the staircase. In the lobby, they pass Mrs. Jorgenson.
Why Mr. Octopus, says Mrs. Jorgenson, you’re out and about!
Just taking the boys back to the sea, says the octopus, and the boys wave hello and good-bye.
They take the subway to the beach. The subway is very crowded.
Where are all these people going? says Gerald. There are so many of them.
I don’t know, says the octopus, looking around. I always wondered that myself.
When they get to the beach, Gerald and Lewis trudge down to the waterline.
Are you sure we can’t stay with you another day? asks Gerald.
I’m positive, says the octopus. I’m sorry.
But why can’t we stay? says Lewis.
There’s no reason, says the octopus. I just can’t let you. Please, boys, just do as you’re told.
The boys grumble some more, but they’re not really angry. They give the octopus great big hugs.
Good-bye, Uncle Harley, Gerald says.
Good-bye, Uncle, says Lewis.
Good-bye, boys, says the octopus. Now off with you.
And he stands there and watches as the boys slap down into the surf and wade out beneath the waves.
Thank God that’s over, thinks the octopus. Now I can go back to my life.
But, strangely, the octopus does not turn. Instead, he stands there and stares—off into the gently rolling surf, down into the water, after Gerald and Lewis. In his mind the octopus pictures his brother—their father—and poor Aunt Hattie, and all those other octopi he used to know in the days before he lived on land. He remembers the day he turned away from them—the day he swam away—the day he walked up onto the beach, and headed into the city and found the apartment. He remembers the day he began drinking tea, and the day he started collecting spoons. He remembers the day he stopped getting his mail and let Mrs. Jorgenson bring it up to him. He remembers in turn all of these things, all of them and more. He remembers the tea as it swirled around and around in a circle in his cup.
The octopus suddenly finds himself walking down the beach to the water. He feels the sand under his tentacles, and then the water washing over them.
My God, the water feels good, he thinks. I had almost forgotten.
He stands in the shallows, gazing out, and then, in one motion, he dives in.
The octopus swims toward the depths—his tentacles waving free—and something inside him opens up. Suddenly, he can breathe.
I’m coming, brother, he calls out, in his mind and in the sea. I’m coming, nephews. I’m coming, friends. I’m coming home. It’s me!
YOU SAW ME STANDING ALONE
KRIS SAKNUSSEMM
Ben was cruising across a stretch of farmland, through endless acres of rice fields, gleaming acres of canola, big irrigation spindles and combine harvesters. He couldn’t switch the country station—it was driving him crazy. He came to a crossroads. There was a boarded-up, shotgunned remnant of a Polar Freeze and a Cherokee gas station. He looked down at his gas gauge. The dashboard was blank. No numbers, no mileage. He glanced over at the front seat. It was littered with Denny’s coffee cups and naked lady playing cards. He pulled in to get some gas. He didn’t know how much he had.
A bell rang when he drove into the forecourt. The gas pumps were old but brilliant white and shining in the heat. A slightly stooped, salt-and-pepper haired man in a mechanic’s suit waved to him out of the shadows of the garage, the silver of the hydraulic lift catching a flash of light, like a pillar of mirror. The man made no motion to come out of the garage so Ben began pumping the gas himself. The nozzle was immense and ancient, and the numbers behind the glass clicked over slowly and mechanically like years on a calendar. It seemed to take forever to fill the tank. His hand got sore. The sun sank. Suddenly he felt a splosh of gasoline splurge up. It smelled like liquor and perfume. Thank Christ, he thought. Tank full at last. Then he saw that the numbers had all turned around to 00. It was dark by then, a full moon rising over a peeling billboard, crickets everywhere like gravel. He crushed them with his feet that he found were bare. No other cars had pulled in and the man in the garage had never come out. Ben walked over to the window looking for where he should pay. The older man in the garage worked by the light of a caged bulb suspended from a steel beam. He was busy with a socket wrench, tinkering with what appeared to be an old-fashioned race car. The sleeves of his dark green coveralls were rolled up and Ben could see that both his arms were artificial. The prosthetic flesh looked real but the fingers weren’t that dexterous—the man kept dropping his socket wrench. Ben realized he’d been hearing that sound the whole time he’d been pumping the gas.
“Built it myself,” the man said, dropping the wrench again and patting the fireball orange metal with one of his plastic hands. “You go on inna office—Lucy Tee will fix you up.”
Ben went outside and finally found the office. The window was full of fan belts and women’s underwear. An old Coke machine was stocked with a drink called Orange Pep, which had the face of a laughing giraffe on it. Inside the office, he found a counter with a girl of about sixteen behind it. She had on a soft white cotton bowling shirt and she was wearing a blindfold. Behind her, on a set of display shelves where cigarettes or candy bars might’ve been, were boxes of condoms and those yellow plastic corn cobs with forks in them for holding corn on the cob so you don’t burn your fingers.
“How come you’re wearing a blindfold?” Ben asked.
“In case anybody tries to ch
eat me,” the girl answered.
“What do you mean—wouldn’t it be easier for ’em to cheat you—if you can’t see?”
“Sometimes,” the girl answered. “But most times they give themselves away.”
“How much do I owe you?” Ben asked.
“Whatever’s right,” the girl answered. “Ain’t no standard rates. Everything’s on an in-di-vid-shool basis.”
“Then how can you be cheated?” He noticed the cash register was open and the drawer was empty.
“Don’t you think I’m pretty?” the girl asked and closed the drawer.
“S-ure,” Ben said, fidgeting, wondering where his wallet had gone.
“Then why don’t you ask me what my favorite song is!”
“What—what’s your favorite song?”
“‘Blue Moon.’”
“Oh, yeah?” Ben said, examining the girl more closely. “Which version?”
“The one on the jukebox,” the girl answered.
“Which jukebox?”
“The one out by the door.”
He wanted to see what she looked like without that bowling shirt on. He didn’t know how much gas he’d bought.
“Why don’t you play it for me?”
Ben felt in his pocket for any change and found he had only beer caps.
“It don’t take no money,” the girl said.
He went outside to the Coke machine. He eyed the row of laughing giraffe faces advertising Orange Pep and bashed one with his fist. The machine teetered and made a mechanical complaint inside, and then to his surprise the girl began singing “Blue Moon…you saw me standing alone…” with a beautiful professional voice—only it sounded amplified as if a radio or a CD were playing and the girl only moving her lips. Ben clapped when the song was over. “I gotta be goin’,” he said.
“You can’t,” the girl said. “Daddy’s not finished building the race car. Then we’re gonna git married and you’re gonna run the station—and build a car of yer own.”